When You Can't Sleep At Night
by calebaren
Summary: A bunch of nighttime interactions between Steve and Tony. THEY'RE IN BED IN SOME OF THEM OKAY YES. Established Steve/Tony.
1. Chapter 1

Tony couldn't sleep. He had been up for the past two hours or so, trying to go to bed. At first, he just poked Steve until he woke up, but that just resulted in several pillows being thrown into his face and a very grumpy super soldier. His head rested on his hands, and he resigned himself to staring straight up at the ceiling and listening to Steve's quiet and rhythmic breathing. In, out, pause. In, out, pause. Tony rolled onto his side, facing Steve's back. He could remember a time without him. The "Dark Days", as Pepper called them. Tony called them the "Get-so-drunk-that-you-can't-even-remember-your-own-gender Days". He was never happy back then, because he never found anything to hold onto. Anything he could ever want could be bought by his massive, unlimited fortune. Girls, cars, attention, mansions, but just not the right soulmate.

And then Steve came bounding along, fresh from his Capsicle and wearing a flag for a costume.

Steve was everything Tony wasn't. Steady, quiet, old-fashioned, ethical, humble; Tony could recite for days on end the qualities he saw in Steve that he never had. Tony sighed and rolled over to face away from Steve, dragging some of the blanket with him. Steve grunted and gently tugged the comforter back to the center and resumed his steady breathing. In, out, pause. In, out, pause. Tony remembered the rare moments when Howard told him bedtime stories, back before MIT, before grade school, even. The light that shone in his father's eyes as he told the tragic tale of Captain America, the world's first superhero. How he singlehandedly saved New York and countless other lives. Steve had always been just Captain America, and now he was sleeping mere inches from him.

Tony swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He quietly opened the door and slipped out into the hallway, arc reactor acting as a flashlight. Just a little bit to drink. Just enough to take the edge off the insomnia. Walking near the wall to minimize noise, Tony made his way up the stairs and into the commons. He shuffled past the living room and the dining room and felt his way into the kitchen. The bar had to be—omf, he walked into it. Tony turned his beam of light to illuminate a seat, and sat down, random choosing a bottle. Just a little bit. Not too much. He poured a small amount into a tumbler and sipped quietly. Well, maybe a bit more.

Steve woke suddenly, gripping the sheets around him. Something was off something—Tony, where's Tony?

"JARVIS, where's Tony?"

"Master Stark is in the kitchen on level 45, sir."

Oh no, not this again.

Steve bolted out of bed, tiptoeing past the bedrooms of the other Avengers and raced up the stairs. He had to get there quickly, before…

Tony was busy downing his fifth cup of scotch. It was scotch, right? He vaguely remembered a shadow come over him, and large hands gently wrest the bottle and cup from his slack hands. Steve led Tony back downstairs by the elbow, and laid him in bed. Tony still reeked of alcohol, but that wasn't new.

"Tony, don't do that."

"Sorry, Cap," Tony mumbled. Steve crawled into bed right next to Tony, and wrapped his arms around Tony. Nothing, his inner demons, was going to break this man. Not if Captain America can't help it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sappy Stony fluff. This entire fic will probably be just that. :D YAY**

* * *

"Tony."

"Mm?"

"I love you."

"Mm. I love you, too, Steve. Well, I love your ass."

"I love your ass, too."

"My ass is pretty nice, yes?"

"Indeed. The greatest ass in Manhattan."

The silence was held for a moment before both burst into laughter. Tony turned towards Steve and buried his shoulder, sighing contentedly. This night had been perfect.

"Steve?"

"Mm?"

"Don't go, okay?"

"Go where?"

"Anywhere without me."

Steve pulled Tony a little closer, feeling the cool brush of the arc reactor against his chest.

"I wouldn't dream of it."


	3. Chapter 3

Tony and Steve lay panting on the bed, tired after an entire night of… activities. Well, Tony panted at least. Steve just had this loopy smile plastered over his face.

"Fuck, Steve. Why are you so amazing?"

"I believe it's something called stamina."

"Shut up. You're lucky I can go… what, _five _rounds? Jesus, Steve, I know the serum did something, but do you even have a refractory period?"

"Uh, I haven't really timed it…"

"Maybe we'll try that next time."

Tony curled up next to Steve, snaking an arm behind his neck and pulling him closer.

"Mmm, I don't ever want to leave," he murmured into Steve's neck.

"Get up, it's Wednesday morning."

"Seriously? I haven't slept at all. Thanks to you."

Steve laughed, which Tony could feel in his bones.

"We super-soldiers don't exactly have to sleep as much as you normal humans."

"I've noticed. Hey, do you mind switching bodies for one day? Because I'm pretty sure that I can make something that does that."

"With pleasure."

Steve ran a hand through Tony's hair, and closed his eyes, a content smile glowing on his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I've reneged on my promise to write 30 chapters/fics a day :( Please don't be mad .-.**

* * *

Steve nudged the scratchy and impeccably trimmed goatee of Tony Stark. He could feel the brainpower coming off him, the circuitry of his mind firing in controlled chaos, surging and unpredictable and churning out more information than he could handle in a lifetime, instantaneously. His own intelligence paled and diminished to an infinitely tiny point as compared to Tony's.

"Tony, do you think I'm dumb?"

Tony laughed, a throaty rumble that Steve could feel.

"There are a lot of people on my 'lobotomy gone wrong' list, even more on my 'you're the reason why evolution is a failure' list, a few on my 'huh, not bad' list, and a scattering on my 'let me hold you and caress you' list. Guess which one you're on, Rip Van Winkle."

"I don't know, I am a walking science experiment, but you do hold and caress me..."

Tony laughed again and ruffled Steve's hair.

"You're not on any of them. You're my equal. No, scratch that, you're smarter than _me_."

Tony shifted his body, twisting around and squirming downwards over so his head rested right next to Steve's, dragging the blanket along with him. "You are one of the smartest people I've ever met, Rogers. Smarter than Pym, than Richards, than Doom. Smarter than _anyone_. Because you're the manifestation of freedom, of democracy, of everything good in the world. And that's probably the smartest thing out there."

Steve blushed, eyes lighting up with Tony's reassuring words. He sighed into the nook of Tony's neck again, inhaling the remnants of his cologne.

"You're lying. I'm just naïve. And you're just dumb for thinking I'm smart."

"Shut up, Steve."

"I love you, Tony. And thanks."

"I love you too, Steve. And you're welcome."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey, guys, sorry I haven't posted so long, but... yeah, Tumblr (rogers - disassembled . tumblr .com -nothing yet! and randomnese . tumblr .com) and RP-ing as Steve (no Stony, but Steve/Phil... sorry, guys!) and writer's block has kind of done stuff to my post schedule. And check the poll on my profile... as of 14 July 2012, you have 2 days to decide what happens to Tony and Steve in Isolation! Yeah, this is really lame, but... you know... stuff :/**

* * *

"Haha, okay, this one's really weird. 'Tony, I really want to see a picture of your penis. Can you send me a picture of your penis?'"

"Tony, that's gross. Is this what you get?"

"Yeah, that's what I get. What do you get? Lollipops and picture of you frolicking under a rainbow, with rays of sunshine and happiness bursting from your pores?"

Steve blinked.

"Um… everything except the pores part."

Tony smirked and stifled a laugh.

"Oh my God, Steve, why are you so wholesome? You're too good for me, for America, dammit, for the entire _world_. You're just too… nice. You know what, we need to make a sex tape. Some tying up, some… are you into wax?"

Tony threw his pen at Steve, trying to catch him off guard. Unfortunately… Steve's hand flicked upwards, nimbly trapping the projectile between his index and middle fingers, twirling it absently, not even looking up from the response he scrawled out.

"Thank… you… From… Captain America," he voiced aloud as he finished his reply. "and that's the last of 'em. How far are you, Tony," asked Steve innocently, mirth in his eyes. Tony grimaced and grabbed the pen from Steve's hand.

"Almost done."

"How many left?"

"Shut up, Steve."

Steve shook his head, smiling slightly. He pushed away from the kitchen counter and walked around until he stood behind Tony, gently pressing his chin into his shoulder. Tony tried to ignore his huge urge to leap onto Steve and go to town right now, and chose instead to cross his legs, hiding the very embarrassing situation between his thighs.

"I'll help," Steve spoke quietly, breath tickling over Tony's neck. Steve pulled a chair out and sat down, reaching across Tony's stationary arm. He plucked the sheet from beneath Tony's arm, a blank sheet of lined paper, and began to write.

"Hi... _Veronica_… This is… Captain… America… Iron Man… is busy… right now…"

The look of quiet concentration on Steve's face and the way his biceps twitched slightly whenever he made a stroke sent a bead of sweat rolling down Tony's face. He leaned a little closer into Steve's shoulder, pressing his cheek against his arm. "I'm sorry… but his… penis is… occupied… at… the current… moment… but I… think… he'd… be… happy… to send… you a... very… _personal_… video… of his… encounter… with—"

"No one knows, Steve, at least no one outside of the eight…" Tony trailed off, distracted by a stray lock of golden hair that caught the harsh lighting. His finger absently brushed the hair to the side, only for it to fall back down. Steve needed a haircut soon, or else he'd end up like Thor all over again. Steve glanced at Tony, confused.

"What?"

"What?"

"Did I do something?"

"No, but Steve, why must you be so damn perfect and amazing?"

"That was… unexpected."

"You're always so nice to everyone, even me, and after the whole Loki thing, you apologized to me right away, when I just sulked around for days trying to find something that'll make you cringe and die of shame, but you just came up and said 'I'm sorry for the whole Helicarrier thing, can we start again? I'm Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America, and you look like someone I worked with a long time ago.' And then there was the whole Clint thing where he smashed your guitar on accident and you just smiled at him and said 'I needed a new one anyway.' And when Bruce hulked out in your room, and you just walked in and rolled your eyes and tried to salvage what little personal possessions you had. And when—"

"Tony."

Steve pressed his sheet to Tony's mouth, stopping his monologue. "I'm only this way because I reflect you guys. You don't know this, but the Avengers are some of the best people I've ever met. Not because of insanely confusing suits, or impeccable aim, or knowing how to maim someone in infinite ways with only a ballpoint pen, but because you guys are willing to use those to help those who don't have those. Sorry if that was confusing, but…"

Steve rubbed Tony's cheek gently with his thumb, ghosting over the rough edges of his goatee. "You are something that I'll protect until I die, Tony."

"Ditto, Capsicle."

Tony turned back to his fan-mail. A comfortable silence passed between the two, filling the room. The vibrations of the computer built into the structure hummed quietly. And suddenly, "Can we fuck?"

"Yeah, I kind of wanted to do that, too."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Just to clarify, Tony takes yoga. A lot. Yoga and tennis, but I really just care about the yoga.**

Tony grinned in the dark, gleaming white teeth glinting.

"No you can't."

"Yes I can, I can show you!"

"I don't believe you."

"Ugh, you never believe me, trust me, I can."

"No, you can't. And I cannot believe exactly how disgusting the fact that you _know_ you can do that is."

"Eh, I got bored a lot."

"Don't show me."

"I have to show you."

"No, no, no, Tony…"

"Hnng!"

"That is repulsive."

"You know you like it."

"Do that again and I'll never sleep with you. Ever. Again."

"Harsh."

Tony flashed his teeth again in triumph, and wriggled a little closer into Steve's warmth. He planted a large, sloppy kiss on his cheek, drawing protests and then a laugh from Steve.

"You're so messy."

"You are, too."

"Yeah, like when?"

"Like five minutes ago."

"That wasn't me, that was my—you know what, you're unbelievable, Tony."

He ran a hand through Tony's hair, pressing an equally loud and noisy kiss on his forehead.

"But I love you all the same."

"Does that mean you'll do that thing I asked you to do?"

"No."

"Dammit, Steve. I thought we were friends."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So Europe has been super pretty/smelly/hot (why, Italy, why must you be 37 degrees Celsius when I'm here) and I still like London the best. Chugging along on that crazy long 6,000+ chapter of Holidays with Steve and Tony. Go check it out, if you haven't already.**

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't sleep."

"Me neither."

"What should we do?"

Steve lay silent.

"When my parents were still around, my mom would always heat up some milk over the oven with some spices that I nicked from the local market. I never told her where I got them, though, and she never bothered to ask. One of the many things I regret not telling my mother."

"Well, you don't have to nick any of my spices. Come on."

Tony climbed out of bed, stretched, and pecked Steve on the cheek. Steve wore a sheet wrapped around his waist while Tony didn't even bother trying to cover himself up.

They climbed a few steps into the kitchen, where Tony rummaged around the cupboards for a pot and two cups and Steve whistled while searching around for milk and the ingredients he saw his mother toss into the pot so many years ago, both chronologically and biologically. Tony banged around some more, before coming up with two black Stark Industries coffee mugs and a small saucepan.

"Thanks," Steve said with a hair ruffle, which Tony snarled at but enjoyed nonetheless. He poured some milk into the pan, set it on the stove on medium low heat, and covered it, trusting JARVIS to keep a close eye on it (and to extinguish any fires if it comes to that).

"Forgive me for asking, but what was your mother like?"

"What was _yours_ like?"

"Um, cold, distant, too vain to notice her wunderkind son, her husband's attempts at showing affection to either, and too weak-willed to care," he bitterly spat, eyes bright and defiant, but they softened quickly. "But she was my mother, and there were moments when… moments when she would act like a mother should."

Steve wasn't a social person, but he was a great listener.

"I'm sorry, Tony."

Tony shrugged.

"She was just a bad parent. It happens. Now tell me about yours so you don't have to feel sorry for me."

"My mother… she died when I was young. When I was eight, she and my dad went out and never came back. I was put into an orphanage. They never found out what happened to them, and their bodies were never found. But what I do remember of my parents… it was good."

"Everything my parents weren't, huh?"

"Sorry to say this, but yeah."

Steam curled around the edges of the lid sitting atop the saucepan. "Hope warm milk makes it better."

Steve threw a pinch of this and some of that into the saucepan, stirred it three times, and let it simmer for a few seconds before turning off the heat and pouring out the fluid into the two cups. He handed a cup to Tony with a smile, the latter receiving a grunt of appreciation. "Cheers."

Tony tapped Steve's cup lightly with his own, then sipped at the steaming milk.

Steve and Tony both grimaced.

"This tastes disgusting. Are you sure your mom made this for you?"

"It's been a while."

"Eh."

"What should I do with this?"

"Pour it down the sink."

"No! That's such a waste!"

"Well, what do you suggest? Drink it?"

"We could water the plants."

"What, with milk that you desecrated? No way."

"Just leave it in the fridge. Clint'll drink it or something."

"Mm."

They stashed the milk into the refrigerator and headed back into their bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry for the delay; have had a bit of writer's block lately. Well, just a bunch of disjointed inspirations, anyway, nothing worth writing about. Blargh, I need to write more.**

"Do you ever think… we'll get bored?"

Steve laughed.

"Until our faces turn blue and our fingers fall off. We always get bored."

"Only so much you can do," Tony murmured.

"Oh the sweet irony. Hey, tell me," Steve started, rolling over so his face was only a few inches away from Tony's, "why is it that we get bored? We do all we can, beyond that, even; we win, we lose, we die sometimes, but we get bored. I mean, that enough should keep us alert, active, scared, and running. But instead, we're lying underneath a star-field, on top of Manhattan's tallest tower, defenseless and utterly exposed, and we are definitely _bored_. What's wrong with us?"

Tony curled one arm under his head, eyes glinting with the dim light of distant stars.

"Because we're comfortable. We're not edgy anymore, Steve. We have nothing to fear. We've seen it all. Spat in the face of fear itself. That whole thing with Thor's uncle, that was fun."

Steve scoffed.

"Easy for you, you got an upgrade. I got a cracked shield."

"Na—I made you a new one!"

"Yeah, and that lasted for two weeks."

"Whatever. You purposely tried to destroy it."

"Mhm."

Tony smirked, and squirmed so his head rested on Steve's stomach.

"We're getting bored. We need something… something _scary_. Something dangerous. Oh, for the love of God, Clint's downstairs throwing _darts_! _DARTS_! He's sick of bows, so I made him exploding darts! What has the world come to?"

Steve rested his head on both his hands.

"I'm director of SHIELD. You're still head of SI. What do you suppose we do?"

Tony snorted.

"Collaboration. Nice try being sexy there, Steve. And where did reconciling those two titles get me last time? I nice case of Asgardophobia and Norman Osborn going apeshit on everything."

"Eh. Worth a shot."

"I'm always worth a shot."

Tony grinned. Steve laughed. He could feel it through his head.

"You really are something."

"Ooh, let's watch Steve act his age."

"Hey, that's unfair."

"So's life. Deal with it."

Tony ruffled Steve's hair, which he knew would somehow manage to look perfect, no matter how many times he tried to screw it up. It was either a) not a hair out of place or b) a tousled look that would take Tony five nights in the lab to achieve. Bastard.

He sat up with a groan, stretching his sore back, then attempting to stand up but keeling over to one side.

"Going in already?"

"I'm bored."

"Help me up."

"You're Captain America. No way in hell am I helping you up."

Steve pouted and used Tony as a counterweight, pulling himself up at the expense of Tony's balance.

"Hey—watch—ow, falling, _falling_—oof!"

Tony fell down, much to his own chagrin and Steve's laughter. "You're a terrible person, Steve Rogers."

"Ouch. That hurts, coming from you."

"Shut up. And help me up!"

Steve hauled Tony up, dusted him off, and wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders.

"Come on, let's get some coffee."

"And this is why I like you."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: What is this. Seriously, can somebody tell me what this is?**

Coffee runs through Tony Stark's blood like plasma.

He would bathe in it if it were socially acceptable.

He literally would herniate if he didn't have caffeine in twenty-seven hours and four minutes.

JARVIS would replace his French roast with decaf and he would sit in front of the coffee machine, snivel, and wail until Steve came and gently petted him back to sleep, or Natasha came in all her bedhead glory and threw a pillow at his face.

"Tony, get up."

The lights clicked on. Well, metaphorically, at least. There weren't any switches; JARVIS controlled the mainframe.

"HNNNNNG. LEMME SLEEP!"

The sheets. _The sheets_. "GIMME MY SHEETS!"

"Come on, up we go. It's ten at night, Tony."

Steve hauled Tony up by the scruff of his neck. Ouch. "Sleep like a normal person."

"Coffee. _Coffee_."

He shoved a mug into Tony's hands. Tony sat on the edge of the bed, bleary-eyed and coddling a cup, hair in every direction imaginable, with a very smug-looking Captain America in a white t-shirt and jeans standing in front of him. Tony sipped at the coffee. He almost threw up. "What is _this_?"

"Decaf."

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"No. Drink. That's all you're getting."

"No, no, no no, you don't understand, I need my coffee, my French roast, I NEED IT!"

Tony madly scrambled towards the kitchen, tripping over Steve and spilling the coffee everywhere. He didn't care, just continued to scrabble helplessly as Steve picked him up and set him back on the bed. Tony considered screaming and wondering if the police would come.

"We're breaking you of your coffee habit." Steve waved a sheet of paper in front of Tony, who squinted at it.

"What?"

"It's our expenses report. Do you know how much you spent on coffee last month? _Last month alone_? Over two thousand dollars! That's not even possible, to spend two grand on coffee!"

"It's good coffee," Tony whined.

"_It's a huge waste of money_!" Steve threw his hands in the air, dropping the sheet. "From this day on, we have a coffee budget. No more than two hundred dollars on coffee every month, that's final!"

"Steven, I am _appalled_. After all I've done for you—"

Steve sighed.

"I appreciate that, Tony, I really do. All the clothes, and giving me somewhere to stay while they tear down my apartment in Brooklyn, and everything, but we're trying to help you, here. And I'll try to make up for it, I really will."

Screw Steve Rogers, always the high road. Tony fought dirty.

"GIMME MY FRENCH ROAST!"

He dived under Steve's arm and clawed forward while Steve dragged him backwards and situated him firmly on the bed. Again.

Tony sniffed.

"I'm hurt, Steve. I'm hurt."

"I know, Tony. He was a dear friend."

"A friend? That two hundred a bag French roast wasn't a friend, he was a _brother_. How dare you defile him!"

"Well, while you serenade your lost bag of coffee—"

"Who you decided to brutally murder—"

"—I have pasta waiting downstairs and Pepper cleared your schedule."

"She's in on this 'Kill Tony from Coffee Withdrawal' campaign? Ugh, I knew I shouldn't have given her those Louboutins."

"Decaf isn't so bad. The bourgeoisie gets by. So should you."

"I hate decaf."

"You'll manage. Pasta's getting cold."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hey… Who else feels like crack?**

"Why the hell did we agree to this?"

Steve shrugged, glancing over the top of the pile of sandbags, tinted shades and all.

"You said this would be fun. A team-building exercise my ass, Rogers."

Tony heard the quiet footsteps and fired two blind shots in the general direction. He grinned at the soft _oof! _of surprise and rapid-fire cursing.

"Shit, shit, _ow_, fuck you, Stark, watch it!"

Clint swung around the pole that marked the end of the sandbag bunker and sat down next to Tony, panting softly from the running.

Paintball at midnight, suggested by the ever-innocent Steve Rogers. Wrapped and packaged in the box of an innocuous training exercise, but is actually more like being chased around by Freddie Kruger.

"Where are those punk-ass teenagers," Clint growled, throwing away his paintball gun and assembling his .250 Remington. Tony whistled.

"That's going to blow a nice hole out of their entire body."

"Hey, put that away," Steve reprimanded, swatting Clint as he slid the scope in place. "They're just nice kids led in the wrong direction by peer pressure. Lay off 'em, Clint."

"Why do you have to make everything so… _PG_? You're like Mary Poppins, for fuck's sake."

"Watch your language, mister."

Steve waggled his finger tauntingly, barely visible in the almost nonexistent moonlight. "Where's Natasha?"

"I think she was trying to kill one of them, last time I checked."

"Like you."

"Shut it, Stark. I'm fumigating."

"They're not ants, they're just annoying teenagers."

"Whatever. Hey, remember what teenagers did to your Valencia factory?"

Tony shut up. Bruce chose this moment to slouch out of the woods, attracted to the sounds of quiet whisper-shouting.

"What's going on?"

"Clint's trying to kill some of the kids."

"What kids?"

"The ones that have been following us around for the past two hours, trying to scare the shit out of us. And it's working."

"Have you guys seen Thor? I lost track of him about fifteen minutes ago."

"He probably fell asleep in a hollow or something."

Bruce nodded and wandered off again.

Natasha landed on top of the sandbags, flaming red hair somehow managing to glow, even in this abyssal lighting.

"How's it going, boys?"

"Get 'em, Tash?"

"They're tied up in a tree, stripped naked and their clothes on their doorsteps, covered in fake blood."

"Are you sure it's fake?"

"As sure as I need to convince you."

"Now wait just a minute—"

"I need a scotch, I'm starving—"

"POPTARTS! I NEED POPTARTS!"

"I tried to wake him up gently, but he just—"

"Alright, where's my Remington?"

"I need my shield, where's the shield?"

"SCOTCH, SCOTCH, SCOTCH—"

"Can't even run a mile without seeing—"

"Okay, screw this, we're leaving."

"Ah, don't you walk away, young—"

"I MADE CHEESCAKE FACTORY RESERVATIONS! WHO'S HUNGRY," Bruce yelled loudly.

And then they all scrambled into the car and drove off to a night of moderately expensive food and tequila.


	11. Chapter 11

"Does that hurt?"

Steve hissed, but shook his head. "Tell me when it does."

A drop of green liquid rolled down the tip of the syringe and landed on Steve's seven-inch gash, steaming and sizzling and searing, but the wound knitted shut and he found that the yellow pallor had left his arm.

Singed uniform clung to him like a rejected lover. Wincing as some of the skin stuck to the outfit, Steve peeled away his Captain America suit while Tony rinsed his hands off. Most of the minor cuts and scrapes were already on the mend, almost to the extent that Steve could see his skin growing back over the wounds.

"What was in that thing?"

"Poison. Designed specifically to counteract your accelerated healing. Problem is, it didn't, it'd just take forever. I sped up the process a little bit."

"Took the bullet for me, Stark?"

"Not quite. Energy shields don't count."

Tony toweled off his hands and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the plate while Steve pulled on clean clothes. Thor made them in one of his bipolar-depressed moments when he thought about his brother. They tasted like sadness, tears, desperation, nostalgia, and Poptarts.

"Cookie?"

"Nah."

"Weight-watching, are we, Rogers?"

Tony nudged Steve.

"Not hungry."

"Come on. Captain America would never pass up a cookie. Eat it."

Steve took the cookie that Tony shoved in his face. He grimaced.

"These taste like sadness, tears, desperation, nostalgia, and… is that chocolate Poptart?"

"You taste it, too."

"Is this Thor or Bruce?"

"Thor."

"Huh. Who knew."

He gulped down the rest of the cookie and wiped his hands on a napkin drawn from his pocket. "Napkin?"

"Just set it down."

Tony sat down next to Steve on the workbench. He smiled at the floor and leaned on Steve's shoulder.

"Civil War."

"Not that again."

"Come on, for old time's sake."

"That was unpleasant for both of us."

"Eh. I just call it sexual tension."

"No, that is not—Tony, I _died_."

"Nu-uh, your soul was just knocked out of your body. You're the new Strange."

"Shut up."

"Whoa, cool it, Steve, no need to get all feisty on me."

Steve sighed.

"What is it about you that makes you so abrasive?"

"I don't know, my money, my hair, my Tower, my brains, my ego… _my rocking abs_… did I mention my money and my brains? Oh, and that not-so-little guy down th—"

"Okay, okay, too much, too much."

"Not what you said last night."

"Oh, stop it, you."

Steve blushed and swatted Tony lightly on the head. Tony indignantly punched Steve in the gut, but it just bounced off and a certain billionaire ended up with a very sore left hand.

"Ow!"

"You started it."

"You're evil."

"And you're rich."

"How does that relate to anything?"

"I don't know, you tell me, genius."

"I really wonder why I spend time with you sometimes."

"Then I best well get going."

Steve stood up and Tony clung onto him.

"I jest, I jest."

"As do I."

Tony yawned. "Tired?"

"Very much so. What're the others doing?"

"Clint's on a date—"

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Oh."

"Bruce and Thor are out for groceries; they want to try brownies—"

"I thought I hired people to cook for us."

"I let Coulson take 'em. SHIELD's short on cooks. Besides, cooking is fun, and it's easy."

"Steve. You underestimate my disastrous culinary skills. I burn _water_ and my Jell-O is _runny_. How the hell can it be runny? You just stick that sucker in the freezer and _voila_, but it's always either runny or frozen solid!"

"I'll teach you tomorrow. But right now, there's a huge bed upstairs with our names written all over it."

Steve steered Tony into the elevator, wounds already cut, sutured and closed, old and new.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Watched Captain America again, and I have all these feels… so I somehow managed to drag Steve/Peggy in here. Is that okay? Okay.**

"Hey. Minute to spare?"

Steve knocked on the doorframe to Tony's bedroom, where he was sprawled out on the bed, reading something on a tablet.

"Shoot."

"The others want to go out to eat tonight. There's this place, La Sirene, that Bruce found. French, high class, foie gras, the works."

"Where is it?"

"It's uh, South Village."

"That's far."

"I know. Traffic's going to be terrible."

"No traffic, just take the chopper."

"No landing pad."

"That's stupid."

Tony rolled himself off the bed. "Let's go."

Turns out you can land just about anywhere when you're in Tony Stark's helicopter. Just flash a smile and the cops slink away to watching the drug dens.

The Everyone dressed nicely; Natasha in a stunning red plunging evening gown with matching clutch and diamond earrings, Clint and Bruce in pared-down tuxedos, and Thor, Steve and Tony wearing black tie wear with cummerbunds. Steve insisted on cummerbunds.

"Why the hell are we wearing cummerbunds," Tony hissed.

"They look nice. Chin up, bound to be paparazzi."

Tony carded through the occupants of the restaurant. Wait a minute, this wasn't right. French President, two tables down. UN Secretary-General, four tables from the wall. Obscure mafia king, slinking to the bathroom, but probably from that corner with all the vodka bottles and teenage hookers.

"I thought this was a dinner, not a state banquet. President Voussez, very nice to see you again," Tony whispered again to Steve, flashing a gleaming smile as he warmly shook the hand of someone whose name he had committed to memory. Pepper made flashcards. After the third time forgetting the US President's name, it was starting to get embarrassing.

"One social, Tony, that's all Fury's asking for."

"I'm not going to sit here and rub elbows with—Your Honor, very nice to see you again. How're the kids? Oh, that's unfortunate, really. I—I assure you, Stark Industries only manufacture top-notch medical equipment. You two, take care, and say hi to Margie for me."

He turned back to Steve. "Spare me, please."

"Shades off."

"No."

"_Tony_."

"Do I get to tie you up later."

"_Fine_."

Tony slipped the pilot shades into his pocket.

"Okay Steve? I am never letting you talk me into anything ever again."

Tony toweled off his hair, another towel wrapped around his waist.

"Shh, shh, get off, you're dripping on the floor!"

"Ooh, look at me, dripping everywhere…"

Tony shook like a dog.

"Don't make me tackle you."

"Shaking, shaking, shaking—oof!"

Steve threw the pillow at Tony's head, pushing him back into the bathroom.

"You deserved that."

"Maybe I did."

"Yes, you definitely did."

"I'm sorry, Steve. Can you forgive me?"

"Why must you always toy with me?"

"Because you are so delightfully full of ingenuousness."

"Clean yourself up or you're not getting your end of the deal."

"Hey, is it even physically possible for Captain America to go back on promises?"

"Yeah," Steve replied quietly, and Tony could sense that he touched a nerve. He wiped himself off quickly, pulled on a graphic tee and sweats, and sat next to Steve.

"Elaborate."

Steve sighed and put leaned back against the headboard.

"You know Peggy."

"Yeah. Knew."

"Yeah, not the one that you know. Knew. Before she got Alzheimer's and went crazy and forgot everything and all that shit."

Steve never swore. "Before I took out that plane with all the nukes in them… before I went down in the ice, I had a comm-link to Peggy. She talked me through the whole thing. Well, she didn't really know how to fly a HYDRA plane either, so it was mainly just me telling her the names of the switches and her frantically flipping through a German-English dictionary."

Steve laughed once. "I knew I wouldn't get out of there alive. A very large chance I wouldn't get out of there alive. She knew that, too. We just… didn't want to accept it. I didn't want to leave things hanging the way they were; she—she saw me kissing this other girl, and I felt so bad about it, and I couldn't change it, and _dammit_," Steve snarled in frustration while running his hands through his hair. Tony just stared at the wall in front of him, his right leg resting atop Steve's.

"What happened after that?"

"I promised her that I'd go dancing with her that Saturday. I didn't know how to dance, and she didn't either. We both have two left feet. But we wanted to try, anyway. Eight o'clock, on the dot, she said. 'Don't you dare be late, understood?' Some nightclub I can't remember, in New York. Brooklyn, I think. I never got to dance with Peggy, Tony," Steve whispered, voice breaking. Tony didn't know what to do in this situation, but he just wrapped his arm around Steve and let him soak his threadbare tee.

"We can visit her tomorrow if you want, and you can teach her the dance moves that I showed you," he spoke quietly into Steve's hair. Steve nodded, still heaving into Tony's shirt.

"I-I miss her."

"I know. We don't have to do anything tonight. Just sleep."

Steve nodded again.

Tony left his arm around Steve until his sobs subsided and segued into the quiet sounds of sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: THIS WILL BE RESOLVED! Just a quick mini story-arc.**

Tony smacked his face into the table with a bang.

"I hate Mondays."

"It's Tuesday."

"I _hate_ Tuesdays."

"Should I ask about Wednesday?"

A sharp keen came from the guy on the table. "Evidently not. What's wrong with the first half of the week?"

"It _sucks_."

"Explain?"

"No."

"Okay."

He looked up from his face-plant.

"What?"

"What?"

"You're just going to let it go?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Tony slowly put his face back onto the table. His nose was starting to hurt. "'Cause if I were you, I'd just ask away."

Steve shook his head.

"I'm not you, Tony. And you're not me. Even though we live together, sleep together, and kick ass together."

"But aren't you the slightest bit curious—"

"_No_."

"Fine, fine, be all defensive, I wasn't going to tell you anyway!"

"I never pushed it."

"Yeah, well, your tone implied otherwise. How am I supposed to read you when you're acting like the fucking Sphinx?"

"Yes, Tony, how are you supposed to read me, when all that you're staring at is the very interesting grain of this European—?"

"Middle Eastern."

"—_Middle Eastern_ table?"

"I should tell you."

"Fine with me."

"Oh, dammit, man, make up your mind!"

"I don't really care, Tony, whether or not you really choose to tell me about your hatred of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I really don't! Here, let's make things easier. Tell me why you hate those days, tell me."

"No, I don't want to."

"Christ, you're telling me to make up my mind? Tony, grow up! I've humored you for long enough, and—"

"What do you mean, 'grow up?' I'm the one who makes most of the money here, and—"

"Oh, don't play the money card. It's always the money card. 'Hey look, I bought us a new helicopter', 'Hey look, Steve, I made dinner reservations in Paris tonight', 'Hey look, I'm so filthy rich that I'm just going to buy the Big Dipper and rechristen it as Steve's Ass', 'Hey look, I built yet another bloody tower with my name on it!'"

"'Bloody?'"

"Picked it up from Peggy."

"Ah."

"Look, Tony, I got a job, a well-paying one, too, and you wouldn't believe how many nights I just sat there, trying to think of ways to make it up to you, even though you always said that it was fine, don't worry about it, that if you had to spend money on anything, it'd be me. And I don't want to walk around with that on my shoulders, that I have to be reliant on my roommate and my boyfriend and my teammate for sustenance, I just don't want to have to do that anymore with a huge black cloud floating over my head. I don't want to be _bought_, okay?"

Tony massaged his temples.

"I know, I know, I—"

"Why'd you even bring that up? You know that I'll never be anywhere remotely _close_ to a hundred thousandth of a percent of what you make—"

"Steve, I—"

"I seriously don't know what you want me to do."

"Look, I'm—I'm _sorry_, okay?"

Tony rested his forehead on his palm and palpated the throbbing along his left superficial temporal artery. Great, which meant that he's had so many headaches that he knows their names. Steve sighed.

"I know."

They both took deep long drags from their coffee. "It's, um, it's getting late."

"Yeah. Shower?"

"Mm."

Tony stood up and placed his still half-full mug by the sink. He didn't need anymore right now. "And uh, Tony?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks for apologizing."

"No problem, Cap."

Tony nodded to himself, and walked towards the bedroom.

"Goodnight, Vienna," Steve muttered into his coffee, smiling slightly at the same time.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: There is a lot of… **_**caricature**_** in these characters nowadays. They're fiction, of course, but most people forget that they're **_**real**_**. Suspension from disbelief works miracles, but it won't cover gaping holes. Steve and Tony are superheroes, yes, but they're a functional couple, and they each have coping mechanisms with problems to boot that a regular person would have. I hope this short chapter sheds some light on that. But apart from that, enjoy! Quick and simple, hopefully not too abrupt!**

* * *

With a silent gasp and a quick start, Tony woke up to a dark room illuminated by the city lights twinkling through the sheer glass. He stared at the ceiling, unmoving, watching little dots dance across the pale canvas, from cars, buildings, and streetlights. The walls thrummed with the yelling, whispers, crying, laughter, mews, barks, howls, chitters, squeaks, and squawks of a thousand tenants, human or otherwise.

Without a sound he slid the thin sheet off his naked body and set foot on the wood floors, a slight creak as he touched the cold ground. Steve's breathing hitched and he groaned as he rolled over, eyes opening slightly and shutting just as quickly, his inhales and exhales resuming their same, slow pace. Tony picked up his watch from the nightstand, squinting at the minuscule hands. He checked the clock on the wall as well.

He stood up and quietly walked into the kitchen, sitting on the couch and flipping on the TV. No more appetite for sleep. It never did him much good anyway. His finger hovered over the mute button as the TV chimed, pressing it so as to not wake Steve up. Rifling through the channels, Tony settled on some dull antique show broadcast, subtitles shuffling up the screen as the appraisers examined one lifeless bowl after another. Tony drew his legs up to his chest as he watched, eyes blank. A streak of memory flashed before his eyes, pain as sharp as a whip jolting through his shoulder. He stared at the TV screen, repeating the subtitles in his mind, trying to drown out the still-tender memories.

He lost track of time. When he snapped out of his trance, he found a blanket around him, a slight luster to the sky as dawn approached, and a new TV program about pigeon migrations. He switched off the TV, feeling no more enlightened on porcelain plates than he started, and reentered the bedroom, that one floorboard creaking once meekly as he climbed back into bed. Steve felt the pressure shift, and he awoke fully this time, the first time since placing a quilt on Tony's exposed back.

"Everything okay," Steve asked, voice gravelly with sleep as he drew close to Tony, warming him up from sitting out on the couch for so long.

"Everything's fine," Tony assured, with reason to think otherwise slipping into his voice, which Steve detected readily.

"We'll deal with it tomorrow. Or rather… in a couple of hours," Steve asserted, gently brushing down a stray strand of Tony's hair with the back of his hand. "Tell me all about it later. But right now, you're here with me, in bed, and that's no place for superhero stuff." He placed an arm over Tony's side and settled in to sleep again.

For most people, each day is a struggle to get up, make coffee, and work nine to five, sit through an hour of traffic, come home, eat, and then sleep. For the protectors of Earth, it's pretty much the same thing. But every now and then, someone walks into your life that makes it not so unbearable. You don't mind having coffee with him, arguing about what the solution for four across really is in the puzzle section of _USA Today_. "Work" means tinkering with his motorcycle to make it run at four hundred miles per hour. And every night, there's another glittering day worthy of being set on a plaque and bragged about.

Every so often, you meet someone like that. And Tony considers himself lucky to have that someone.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Gore. Not really.**

Tony groaned as he sat up, snatching up a box of tissues as he ran to the bathroom, the ruckus of doing so waking Steve up. He leaned over the sink and pressed a wad of paper tightly to his nose as the blood flowed freely.

"Tony, what's wrong?"

"Nosebleed, dammit," he yelled back, little drops of gore flinging down into the sink, peppering it with dark red dots. Steve threw off the covers and followed Tony into the bathroom. "Augh, augh, augh, what do I do? Steve, what do I do? Do I sneeze out the blood? I'm sneezing out the blood!"

Tony blew out through the nose, splattering the mirror and the sink with blood.

"No, no no, no no no, don't tilt your head up, and for God's sake, _don't sneeze,_" Steve commanded, shoving Tony's head down into the sink. "The blood will just move down into your throat. Here, keep it forward. Go sit on the bed, I'll clean up this mess you made here."

Steve soaked a washcloth in cold water, slopped it onto the bridge of Tony's nose, and guided him to the bed. He used a paper towel in the cabinet under the sink to wipe down the mirror, leaving little pale red streaks that quickly dried. Leaving the faucet on to wash away the blood in the sink, Steve soaked the paper towel in water and washed the mirror again, the soaking towel turning garishly coral. He tossed it into the trash.

"Turn the heat down to 69. What's the humidity, JARVIS," Steve asked.

"This room is programmed to stay at... 35%."

"Haha, you said 69—oww!" Tony laughed, to which Steve cuffed him across the back of his head. "What was that for?"

"For getting a nosebleed, you moron," Steve shot.

"You hit an injured person. I'm telling."

"Turn the humidity up to—keep the rag on your nose, Tony!—65."

The room dropped in temperature and the air grew palpably stickier as water vapor flooded in from unseen nozzles and the fans worked overtime to circulate the stagnant air.

"But—"

"You will do as I say, Tony Stark, or so help me, I will hogtie you and suture your nostrils shut."

Tony huffed and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and clutching the sopping washcloth on his face, rivulets of water running down his cheeks. Steve, using the box of tissues, wiped off the rest of the blood from Tony's mouth and chin, tossing them into the wastebasket.

"Have you never had a nosebleed before?"

"I had one once when I was fourteen."

"So in… almost three decades, you've never had another nosebleed."

"Nope," Tony said, grinning.

"You're ridiculous. How?"

"I'm just very healthy."

Steve snorted disbelievingly and elbowed Tony.

"Keep the pressure on your nose, head forward. Well now you know what to do if you ever have one again and I'm not there. So you won't bleed out on the ground. The great Tony Stark, vanquished by epistaxis."

"I can see the headlines."

"Ticker of the century."

They laughed, Steve wiping another rogue trickle of blood leaking from Tony's right side.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I'm tired I should not be writing when I'm tired okay goodbye**

"I got this round."

Tony stood up from the table and headed towards the bartender. Steve sat awkwardly with some of Tony's "business associates". They weren't his type of people. In a way, they were like Tony, but with much less flair and they took obnoxiousness to the next level.

"So here I am, sitting across from this 10, and she's staring at me with those eyes and I'm just watching her as she's talking and her jugs are…"

Steve coughed slightly and blocked out the rest of story. Somewhere along the way he must've scored because everyone suddenly started yelling and pointing. Tony sat back down next to Steve and immediately sank back into the conversation.

This lasted for another two hours. Steve ordered a beer and only touched half of it. When the bar finally closed, the other guys were so drunk they could barely stumble out of the fine establishment without falling flat on their faces. Tony was one of them.

The frigid air hit Steve like a hammer.

"'S cold, huh, Cap?"

"Yes Tony, it's very cold. Come on, let's get these guys a taxi."

Steve whistled and flagged down a cab. The other guys were having a spitting contest. He tried coaxing them into the tiny car, the driver getting restless at the amount of time it was taking.

"Hey, hurry up!"

"Gavin, get inside."

"That's what your mom sa—"

Steve shoved Gavin into the car.

Dragging a completely blacked out and non-sober Tony behind him, Steve keyed the elevator to their floor.

"Hey Cap, wanna fuck in the elevator? Come on, it'll be so hot, let's just do it, come on," Tony slurred as he clung onto Steve. Steve only crossed his arms and counted the floors. His breath smelled of alcohol.

Steve half-carried half-haggled Tony into the bedroom, where he stripped him down.

"So we're still doing it, huh, Cap?"

"Shut up."

Tony rolled onto the bed and started laughing, negating Steve's attempts to undress him.

"Fine, you know what, you're a grown man, you can take off your own clothes. I'm going to bed."

"Wait, no, Cap, come back," Tony called.

Steve brushed his teeth and showered, changing into a new shirt. He went back into the bedroom, only to find Tony, his dress shirt half off and his pants unbuckled, snoring and sprawled across the bed. Smiling, Steve moved Tony into a more comfortable position and took off the rest of his clothes grimy clothes, tossing them into the hamper.

"Huh? What?"

Tony blinked a few times, confused.

"Sh, just sleep."

"Wha—?"

"You're drunk."

"Uh—"

Tony passed out again.

"Goodnight, Tony."

Steve shut off the light and closed the door behind him.

Tony sat up in the middle of the night, the outside still dark, breathing heavily. His head felt like a butcher had cleaved clean through the middle and his eyesight was blurry.

Stumbling out of the room, he blinked a few times, seeing nothing in the near darkness. In the living room, sleeping quietly on the sofa with a blanket dangling half off his body, lay Steve.

Tony, head still pounding, grinned at the sight and quietly covered Steve up with the blanket again. He grabbed a bottle of water, drank half of it, and staggered back into his bedroom.


End file.
